Take a Tip from the Tiger and Stay Young!

never saw a tiger in the zoo exercising with dumb-bells. He never sur prised you by throwing the medicine ball or trying out the chest weights.

Yet the caged tiger is practically as lithe and powerful as his brother in the jungle. In his narrow cage he knows how to exercise!

Modern conditions have crowded us into cities and towns. We, too, are "caged animals"-but our exercise is so spasmodic and artificial that we lose our physical vigor long before we should.

The span of human life is slowly and surely growing shorter; disuse of bodily muscles has made us weaklings compared with primitive man. It has affected the functioning of our organs, and made us ready prey to sickWe let ourselves rust into premature

ness.

old age.

Over $200.00 a Month

That's what John B. Matthew, a Western college student, received in exchange for his efforts in securing new subscribers and renewals for The American Magazine, Woman's Home Companion, Collier's, The Mentor, and Farm and Fireside. He cashed in big in the ever-growing popularity of the Crowell Big Five. YOU CAN DO IT, TOO! There's an opening for you on the Subscription Staff and a chance to make every odd moment net you real cash. You can use full or spare time. Start with your immediate friends or relatives and build up a successful business for yourself without any original outlay.

Chief of
Subscription
Staff, Desk C 59
The Crowell
Publishing Company
416 West 13th Street
New York City

Please tell me how I can earn some Crowell cash. I can

de vote (a) time to the work.

I have reached my father. He's eager enough to trace her down! It is his fad to catch these people-these mystics. He believes the world, including the intelligent classes, has lost its emotional balance. God help the mystic upon whose trail my father goes!"

Emlen appeared to be moved and troubled.

"That's all I know," she said without further interest. "And as for myself, I am sure that the soul does give physical well-being. I am simply radiating!"

She descended the path into the mist. "Through here," she said, going through an arch hung heavy with thick-flowering vines.

Claveloux found that they had come to a wall of white stone, mounting up to the lower branches of the tall old pines in which the only opening was a window of vast dimensions. On either side of this window, set into the stone, was a bas-relief of Botticelli with all the figures shadowed clearly by moonlight.

"His studio," she said.
"Why did you come?"

"A whim-an impulse. I don't know why!"

"Are you going in?" "Of course. There is not a soul here now," Vanessa answered. "Adam is alone here at night."

The door, apparently of bronze, was open, inviting them into the studio. Claveloux could see as they entered that draperies of cloth hung from the ceiling and along the walls. A revolving stand in the center of the room bore the rough outlines of a faun bending to drink at some water course. Several

low the inscription, "The Spirit," was carved into the plastic material, and the face above, of heroic proportions, appeared to be the materializ tion of human purity, fortitude, and tenderness. This was an inspired work indeed. It was an expression of the immortal soul which sometimes glows beneath the features of mankind. But there could be no question of its source. The face was the idealized face of Emma Gammell..

Claveloux, after his single exclamation, remained silent and awed. He heard one moan rise from some unsounded depths of Vanessa. Afterward he rebuked himself for harboring the impression that this was the death cry of something long hidden beneath all the vanity, all the silly, wretched, I wasted life of Mrs. Yates.

For a moment they stood silent. Then she turned toward him, saying in a voice which was singularly like the voice of one who has long lain ill: "Isn't it quite wonderful, Dr. Claveloux, my friend? I was not mistaken in Adam Pine, was I? This is genius! This is a masterpiece indeed."

She put her arms around her trembling body.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Very cold," she said wearily. "I think we must be going. I am so cold. The breeze has sprung up from the sea."

"And it is damp here."
"Yes, like a-tomb."

They went out. He put his coat around her, and, without exchanging a word, they walked back to Rockcrest.

V

ANESSA'S laugh echoed against the walls and from the high ceiling -a gay and almost girlish mirth. She said: "They are not only motionless, but they are silent! Think of a company so companionable. Adam has created every one of them, and there is not one in the lot to talk him to death!" "Are there lights?" asked Claveloux. "We want no lights. Come here." She pointed toward a sculptor's stand, full in the moonlight, with a wet cloth draped over the mass of clay. "There's the mystery he's been working on."

She looked over her shoulder at Claveloux with the moonlight full upon her face. "I feel like a naughty child," she said. "At first, when I refused to come here, he begged me to do so. Now he talks as if my refusal to come had been a pledge or a promise to stay away. That means he has a surprise for me, doesn't it?"

She touched the wet cloth.

"Don't!" said Claveloux banteringly. "Remember Mrs. Bluebeard, who stole a look behind the closet door where the other wives were mere pendulums upon the clothes hooks."

"Then look," said Emlen innocently enough.

She pulled away the damp muslin gently until its edge suddenly released the whole of the drapery and dropped it trailing grayly in contrast to the silver of her gown. She stared at the mass of clay upon which the moonlight shone down in all its intensity.

"My God!" Claveloux exclaimed. From the rough masses of clay a countenance chaste, noble, severe, and yet tender, patient and yet smiling, looked toward them, but through them as if into eternity. Perhaps both of them realized at the same time that the young sculptor had never reached before an equal power in his art. Be

HE next morning Dr. Claveloux breakfasted in his room. The rain was slapping at the long windows, the coffee was hot, and its aroma suggestive of comfort. Nevertheless he dressed as soon as possible and went down into the library.

Mrs. Yates had ordered a fire lit upon the great hearth, and with her Airedale asleep on the floor before her, with its head between its paws, she was half sitting and half lying in the recesses of a carved leather Spanish seat.

"You know, I never knew you ever got up before ten," Emlen said. "It's a miserable day for me to go back." "You must?"

"I must."

Each understood.

"You know why I am up? It's a paradox. I am up because I didn't sleep. I have been sleeping so very badly these days-for a long time."

Each understood that this was untrue. "Last night I simply could not sleep!" she exclaimed, looking up into his face with an expression of weariness, letting cigarette smoke trail up from her lips. which were much too red.

"Haven't you anything to take?" "Yes. I was going to ask you about it," she said, holding out a tiny brown bottle. "Is this stuff safe?"

"You mean, does it produce a habit? Oh, I think there is no real danger. It is not like the derivatives of morphine." She laughed. "Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant dangerous. I meant danger of taking an overdose so one would not wake up."

Claveloux said: "You are not being dramatic with me?"

She was furious. "You ought to know me too well. We understood each other last night, but I am not a weakling."

"Well, it's safe enough unless one took thirty or forty grains all at once." She tossed the bottle into the fire. "I think one ought to learn to sleep without artificial means," she said. "In sorry you must go in to-day. The roads will be horrible."

She arose and walked toward th windows. "Horrible," she repeated. "But there is something I wish you I would do for me."

"Anything," said Claveloux from his heart. He took her hand. It was as cold as ice. He put it against his cheek. "Thank you," said Vanessa. "I wish you would say to my secretary, Miss Gammell, that she and I have made a great mistake. I want her to come back to me. Tell her I beg her to do so." (To be continued next week)

New York: 416 West 13th Street. London: 6 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W. C. 2

MAY 23 1921

Collier's

THE NATIONAL WEEKLY

୧୯

J

UM-PIN-Jesh-i-mon!" Old Jeremiah GreenSergeant, Company A, the Hundred-Ninth Indiana Volunteers-delivered his favorite expletive in his most explosive manner. His throat was contracted to the strangling point and, as he held his old briar pipe at arm's length and dabbled at streaming eyes with a huge blue bandanna, he sputtered in the general direction of the quietly grinning figure on the shady end of their bench.

"Gol-durn Johnny Reb! What in 'tarnal sin ye got in that t'baccer?" he demanded finally.

"Ain't got nothin' in it; jest pure tobacco-does take a man to smoke it, though," and Beauregard Crane, who had fought with Lee and was still proud of it, chuckled as he filled his own pipe from a bag of crumbs that were as black as his tie. "I've bin a-smokin' of it all winter."

"Takes a man t' smoke it, hey?" Jeremiah's short, white beard crinkled as his lips encircled the stem of his pipe again. He drew gingerly and quickly blew away a dark cloud. "Wal, if ye're that kind of a man ye kin smoke it. Where'd ye git itsomethin' yer nephew brought back from France?"

"No; Johnny gets it fer the store t' mix with some other stuff. He says they smoke it thataway in England. They grow it down in Louisiana."

"Louisianny, hey? Thought so." Jeremiah deliberately studied the little, dried-up man at the shady end of the bench, and as deliberately he said: "Only place in th' world they'd make such stuff."

TAPS

To try next Monday to understand each other as fellow creatures of the same common clay-this is the first and greatest tribute we can pay to the men who cared enough for all of us to die in our defense

By Paul R. Leach

Illustrated by Frank Godwin

"All tobacco comes from the South-" "So! But Louisianny's furdest South, and th' furder ye go th' more ornery they git!"

Beauregard Crane caught himself just in the nick of time. Here they were, first time they had seen each other since he had come back from his annual Southern hibernation, quarreling an' snapping at each other like a couple o' yeller pups; bringing back that old argument of North versus South, and being foolish about it. Besides, Beauregard was fair enough

to admit to himself quite privately that maybe he had been a leetle mite hard in handing his old friend pure perique without a word of warning concerning its potency, especially when he knew that Jeremiah much preferred the denatured stuff that looked and tasted more like corn silk than anything else.

"Ah, Jerry," he said placatingly, "you don't mean that, do you? I came from New Orleans, you know." Sergeant Green took one more drag at the offending pipe and vigorously tapped it against the edge. of the bench. "No, Bo," he conceded, inspecting the empty pipe bowl and wondering if it ever could smoke sweet again, "but that t'baccer. . . !" He shook his head in wonder.

"Forget the darn stuff an' smoke some of your own kind; I brought ye a can of it, anyhow," said Bo, and peace was restored.

Through a hard winter Jeremiah had been forced to remain within doors at the State Soldiers' Home, and Beauregard's visits, before he went South in December, had been spent in the cozy Monroe County cottage where Jeremiah held forth in solemn, solitary if somewhat disorganized, dignity. But now, with the sun warming everything up nice and bright, including stiff old bones, their yarn-swapping rendezvous on the edge of the bluff was just naturally the best place in North America to be. Their own favorite bench commanded a view of beautifully rolling countryside through which the Wabash cut its placid expanse, here and there showing its best parts as it

elbow forming a perfect right angle, little finger standing straight out from a clenched fist like a sore thumb.

Bo chuckled. "Couldn't hold one o' them short bugles thataway," he criticized, "an', besides, he never did hold his little finger up so. That's hogwash! He held it thisaway, like we did down South in '61," and Bo displayed a fully clenched right fist as he, too, played a phantom tune. The skin above Jeremiah's whiskers turned red. He looked like a ripe tomato that lay upper half out of the snow. "Anyhow"-Bo was watching an early beetle investigating the housing situation in the vicinity of Bo's Congress gaiters, and failed to notice the rising color above Jerry's whiskers-"anyhow, I don't believe you know which end t' blow. I can beat you-all the best day you ever saw!"

TH

HAT was going a bit strong. Jeremiah endangered the pocket of his best black coat by jamming his lighted pipe into it, bowl down. His whiskered lips moved. Finally the words came. "Jum-pin-Jesh-i-mon!" he cried, as he arose from the bench. "Bugler! You a bugler!" Then he paused and shook his fist at Bo. "You-youJohnny Reb... ! Never was a Johnny Reb could blow the bugle! You-blow taps! Rats!" His beard fairly radiated sparks.

A tolerant smile played over the lips of Beauregard Crane. At a time when carpetbagger and scalawag had trooped South, Bo Crane had gone North, and he had become Northernized to all but Jerry Green. He twisted his worst leg around to a more compromising position and squinted at Jeremiah.

"I'll admit, Jerry," he grinned, with a drawl that

"None o' yer durned business wher' I'm a-goin'," retorted the outraged Green. "I'm a-goin' inside wher' I don't have t' listen t' no durned Johnny Reb's braggin'-that's wher' I'm a-goin'." He hesitated as he reached the clean, white sidewalk.

"Ye had plenty o' practice on taps when us Yanks got through with ye," he cried, his whiskers dancing a fandango. "Ye never had a chanct o' blowin' taps fer sleep when night come!"

The easy smile slowly faded from Bo's face. He loved to tease this old friend of the Northern armies, probably every bit as much as Jeremiah loved to twit him. But there were limits to which the teased could go in return. "Go on, then; go on," Bo shouted in a voice that cracked. "I ain't a-comin' out here no more to listen t' your gabbin', if that's what you're after. Go on; go on over t' your Widders' Home; that's whar you belong!"

That was the crowning insult, and Jerry felt that Bo meant it to be that. Bo knew well enough that Jerry would have nothing to do with those husband-huntin' widders. He had to pass the long brick Widows' Home to get to his cottage. That was endurable, but passing the Widows' Home meant coming within range of M'lissy Fortune's tongue. Jeremiah was positive that Jimmy Fortune had died grinning, even if the sentimental side of the home called it a smile. M'lissy's tongue swung from the middle and it stung from both ends.

Jerry would not even reply to that insult; he wouldn't dignify it so much. He strode on toward the little cottage where he received such visitors as still came to the Monroe County donation, although Mother Green was no longer there. Here Jerry received his visitors, sold them necklaces made of Job's

bit of truth, but realize it he did in time.

There was nothing much an old fellow could do but hunt up people who could talk his language, of his period, and of the things that he know. In concession to the understanding that Bo Crane had worn the gray with honor-and in further recognition of the fact that he had possessed the good sense to come North-the men who sat on sunny days at the edge of the bluff and spun their yarns never sounded touchy subjects when Crane was among them. That is, all but Jeremiah Green steered clear of mention of Johnny Rebs and such things.

THE

HE bond between them that had permitted, nay, even encouraged this breach and had made it just the opposite of a social error, dated back to a certain murky evening when a young man had poked his head through a screen of bushes on the bank of a stream that happened to be no-man's land.

"Hey, Reb; got some t'baccer t' swap fer some coffee?" he asked softly. The hazily defined figure that loomed out of the dusk on the opposite bank straightened and leaned a musket against a tree. "Yes, Yank-you got the coffee?" he replied. "Sure; all right t' come over?" "Come ahead!"

There was a subdued splashing for a minute as a youth in blue tatters waded the shallow stream, and two tightly rolled packages changed hands; but the trade had no more than been made when there came the unmistakable sounds of a man breaking his way through the underbrush toward them. The mud was slippery and the brush had a way of flying up and hitting one in the face; wherefore the man had signaled his coming with (Continued on page 16)